A/N: Okay, so this is decidedly not Lawbreaker to Lecturer. My bad - you see, I kind of wanted to take a moment to see if I can figure out some stuff with it that's pretty immediate and pressing; this 'stuff' being that I have awful writer's block with it at the moment. I know where I want the plot to go, but have no idea how to get there - more accurately, I have no idea how to get through Chapter 10. So, in the meantime, have this; I did legitimately enjoy writing this and coming up with the concept, and I hope it reflects in this first chapter. (it's probably already been done but hey whatever)
Chapter 1
It's narrow. Suffocatingly narrow, and the darkness seems to ebb its way through me as I crouch in the tiny gap in the wall to hide. My clothes - well, if you could even call them clothes - cling to my body, slick with blood. It's not my own. Far away, I can hear piercing screams of pain and terror. My heart tries to reassure me, but my head knows that they're the screams of the dying. Worse yet, they aren't the screams of strangers - people I've known for my short six years of life are out there, being torn asunder, ripped limb from limb like ragdolls by the creatures of the -
I still my shaking body and bring my train of thought to a screeching halt, although I can't quite stop the sweating. Or the fear - but I have to push it aside for now.
Negativity attracts the Grimm, after all.
I try to occupy myself with my surroundings, to take my mind off of the horrors happening in my… Well, my home. Sure, I may hate it, with all of its carpets that seem to grow dusty too quickly, with the gaudy paintings and the grandiose curtains and pretentious chandeliers, but it's still the place I've lived for the entirety of my short life.
One which may, whether I want it to or not, come to an end very, very soon.
I look out through the small gap in the boards that cover my hiding place into the hallway. It's empty. I don't dare step out into it - even if there aren't any Grimm there, my inevitable rising dread from being alone and in danger will attract them like moths to a flame. The carpet is in tatters, marked with the telltale black streaks of red dust rounds, from what was likely a short-lived battle between the house servants and the monster that had only hours earlier brought my unhappy, but peaceful days to a screeching halt.
Not a monster with a bone-white mask, and matted black fur, with cruel fangs and deadly talons made of nothing but pure hatred with eyes that burned like coals. Not a monster form out of one of the fairytales I often snuck away to read. No, a monster with arms and legs and a chest wrought of muscle, and bone, and skin; with a beating heart, and eyes which, although cold like the grave, were unmistakably human - but a monster regardless.
The thought of him makes an unpleasant chill wash over me, and my teeth begin to chatter. Curling up and hiding does nothing to quell the shaking in my hands - the danger isn't out there anymore, but in my mind it's ever-present, looming and dangerous. I look out to the hall way again, trying to dispel all thought of him from my mind.
There's a painting mounted on the wall, one made recently. I've never been allowed within several metres of it before, of course - the household heads would have never trusted me with it in years; too scared of me slipping and spilling a bucket of water on it, or something ridiculous. As such, I've always had to admire it from a distance, the spacial gap between me and it almost as big as the gap between me and the lifestyle it represented.
On it, frozen in canvas, is a woman with two younger teenage girls at either side of her; her arms wrapped around them lovingly. Of course, I didn't get to see them smile like that often, and when they did it was rarely - if ever - at me.
The woman in the centre is their mother, and also my mistress. Her hair is blonde, although it would appear almost white from a distance, and it practically radiates her aristocratic upbringing: smooth, straight and without a single flaw along its entire length. However, it's also bunched into an unnaturally tame ponytail, repressed and prevented from taking its natural shape.
Stained with blood that dripped down onto the floorboards, imprinting their fragile minds with her own mortality. Her face frozen, as the plea for the three of them to escape was cut short by the hand crashing into her skull.
I suppose it's an apt metaphor for her personality. I often wondered if, like me, she once wished for something beyond the hand she was dealt; it would certainly explain the wistful glances she took out of the window when she thought no one was looking. Like a caged bird. But, her repression twisted that blank, cold face in the painting into a sneer all too often, and all too often in my presence, and all too often she trained it on me too.
She reached out, and despite all of the blood flowing from her mouth, she somehow managed to smile - to try and comfort them even through the haze of fear. She couldn't speak, but her eyes said enough: everything was going to be fine; they would all leave there safely. She collapsed to the floor, sodden with her own blood, with a wet squelch.
Standing next to her is her eldest daughter. The girl's standing upright and tall, her back straighter than the blade of the sword holstered at her hip. She stands tall, seemingly almost too tall for the canvas - a girl who was larger than life and filled with promise.
She slumped to the floor, her back broken from the knee that struck her from behind. She laughed feebly, even as she was lifted by scruff of the neck and tossed across the room, smashing into the wall with a painful crash by power that even she couldn't hope to match.
Her hair is twisted into a bun at the back of her head, one that I always thought looked painful. Her expression is stern, and disciplined. It was one that turned into a smile in my presence, but it was always forced, never genuine - out of politeness, not respect, and out of necessity, not kindness. Her eyes stare out at me, piercing me like a pair of blades.
Her eyes dimmed, and as she looked at them her expression finally softened. The usually harsh and powerful glare was replaced by a single, crystal clear look - desperation. Tears ran down them, and they watched the two flee down a final hallway even as a boot came down on her temples, splattering her head, which once towered over her peers, across the carpet.
And then, nestled within the arms of her mother, standing ever faithfully at her side even in the painting, stands the youngest of the three. Her face beams with a childish joy - one that she often used to ruthlessly tease and torment me, certainly, but one that makes me smile upon looking at it nonetheless.
She hung in midair, hands that looked more like steel than flesh wrapped about her slender neck. Her mouth twisted and contorted to try and sneak air through the vice around her, but was met with failure with every attempt. She clawed desperately, her attempts growing more frantic and faster with each second she spent bereft of air.
She's beautiful, too. She looks radiant even in the painting, but the girl captured by paint paled in comparison to the girl in flesh and blood. Visiting families always tried extra hard to force their revolting heirs upon her, whom she often forced upon me. I've always wondered what her most distinctive feature was, and as I see the painting I finally settle on it. It's her cheeks. They're red with life. They're vibrant, and capture the heart of anyone who stands near her.
Her face grew white as her life slipped away from her. The clawing stopped, and she hung still in the air. Then, perhaps as one last desperate resort, her eyes begin to glow. The air went still and cold, wrapping around the man's arm, and soon telltale streaks of ice began to form along its muscular length. He smirks, and with a single squeeze and a deafening crunch, the girl's neck was crushed. The light in her eyes faded as she looked at what may have been the last person standing in the entire house. Even in death, her eyes bore into mine in what was clearly disappointment.
… I can't snuff out the memories. They're still fresh in my mind, and as much as I try to shroud them in darkness they remain illuminated. I tear my eyes from the painting, and stare back into the shadowy wall directly in front of me. Clasping my hands to my face, as if it would somehow hide me better, I realise that I'm crying.
I urgently wipe them away, but trying to get rid of them only brings more - for each tear I wipe away two more appear, and before long my hands are too numb to move. I know that it'll bring a painful death, dealt by bloodied claw or glistening fang, but I can't stop myself anymore. The sound of my ragged sobs echoes down the hallway, which no doubt causes the heads of the thousands of Grimm which probably swarm the town to turn. And if not the sound, then it's the scent of my sorrow - the pull of my negativity that'll inevitably bring them right to me if I don't do anything to suppress it.
But I still can't stop. My tears mix with the blood on my face, running red streaks down my cheeks, dropping off of my chin and pooling on my palms.
Why me? I silently ask noone in particular. What did I do to deserve this kind of misery?
I've always tried my hardest to do all of the work I got, even when it left me buckling under the force of my own fatigue. I've studied hard in what little spare time I've gotten. I've always behaved at my best, even when treated poorly. So why, why do I always get rewarded for my endurance with more hardship?
I receive no answer. I tilt my head up, and realise that I'm no longer crying. Of course I'm not. The sorrow's gone now, replaced almost completely by fear.
The screams have been silenced.
And that can only mean one thing. The Grimm have finished with my village, and somewhere, somewhere deep within my mind, a single, sinister voice speaks to me.
Next, they're coming for you.
The world seems to stand completely still, and I choke as a scream dies in my throat. The impending danger seems to close in on me, as the small hole I've stuffed myself in begins to feel less and less like a safe hiding place, and more and more like a prison - keeping me trapped in place as whatever's outside - out there - draws nearer.
My arms begin to twitch, frantic to claw the way outside, and my legs tense with the urge to run with all of their might. They can't; I have to stay exactly where I am - putting myself out in the open will only ensure my own demise. The stuffy, dusty air seems suffocating, and with each breath I draw the next one is even more rapid and faint.
I can't leave.
You have to leave.
If I try and run, I'll die.
If you're here, you won't be able to escape when they find you.
Warmth washes over me, and I peer out through the boards into the stone hallway. My breath catches.
There's no way out.
A single eye, a glowing red circle of pure hatred, stares back at me. Every nerve and sinew in my body tenses; I can no longer flee even if I want to. There's nothing I can do as it slowly creeps back, and a pair of claws, black like the night yet turned red from human blood, sneak their way in between the narrow pieces of wood separating me from death.
They lash out at me, and I shrink back as far as I can in a fumbled attempt at dodging.
They catch me. Pain streaks up the entire right half of my body as they bury into my lower leg. It then twists its claws, and I scream. It hurts - it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before in my entire life, and I can only clutch my leg helplessly as it yanks its clawed hand free.
It's grinning. It's mocking me, laughing at how futile my resistance is, and basking in my despair.
In the face of death, the question from before creeps back into my head. Why do I have to struggle, and squirm in pain in a decrepit little hole in the wall?
Maybe it's just to take my mind off of the pain, off of the crippling, mind-numbing fear, but as the Beowolf begins to scratch away at the tiny planks protecting me, letting out a haggard series of barks - a sinister, inhuman laugh - it's all that occupies my mind.
And as it tears away the wood, ripping it from the wall and tossing it aside, the answer finally hits me.
All my life, I've lacked one thing. One thing that would've allowed me to bridge the gap between me and everyone else. One thing that would have allowed me to do something as I saw people murdered before my eyes. One thing that would allow me to strike back against the Beowolf now lifting its cruel claw into the air, poised to kill me.
Power.
The Beowolf brings its claw down, and I close my eyes, expecting pain and then… Nothing.
Creak, creak, thud.
Nothing happens. I look up. The Beowolf's head is turned, looking at the source of an unknown sound.
Creak, creak, thud.
The Beowolf begins to back away, growling.
Creak, creak, thud.
I can hear it in the distance. A sound, slowly approaching - footsteps. Although they're measured - tempered, even - each creak against the wooden floor causes a tingling sensation to creep up my neck. They feel charged, somehow. Dangerous.
Creak, creak, thud.
The Beowolf tenses, falling silent. Then, claws outstretched, it leaps.
Crack!
A black blur flies past my vision, leaving a trail of mist darker than the night itself. I can only see it for a second, but it still rings throughout my mind. Eyes which, although the hatred behind them is slowly dying out, still burn like two glowing pyres.
It was killed instantly. With no less effort than squashing an ant.
A newfound terror seizes me - I've only ever seen one human being with that kind of strength.
Creak, creak, thud.
Has that man come back?
Creak, creak, thud.
If I stay - if I stay, I'll end up like everyone else. Killed brutally.
Creak, creak, thud.
I jump from my hiding place, my eyes closes, and hit the floor running. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, and before long I begin to feel the painful tug of fatigue on my chest.
Creak, creak, thud.
It's awful. My leg flares with pain with every step I take. It feels like cinder blocks are wrapped around my feet. They give way; the floor rushes up to meet my face, and I crash into it painfully.
Creak, creak, thud.
The pace of the footsteps is increasing. Tears begin to streak down my face once more. I don't want to die here. Not like this.
I reach forward, and try to drag myself along the floor. It's no use; my body feels like it's made of stone and every joint refuses to obey me.
Creak, creak, thud.
I feel a weight on my shoulder. A hand. I turn around, preparing to meet the cold, amber eyes of my killer…
And meet a pair of warm, brown ones clad in crooked spectacles.
"You must be so, so afraid." he says, and his voice is smooth, and kind.
He drops down the item occupying his other hand with a clatter, from the looks of it an ornate black cane of some kind with a silver handle, and then places it on my other shoulder. I want to pull back, to try and run away, but I don't resist as he draws me closer. Before long, his arms are around me and I'm leaning into him.
My tears are streaming down his green suit in waves, and the blood from the rags I wear is staining his trousers, but he doesn't care. Instead, he strokes my back as I continue to cry into his chest.
"It's okay. You're safe now." he whispers.
I reply with a loud sob, and break out into yet more tears. I collapse to my knees, and he holds firm.
I'm safe.
I'm alive.
Slowly, the tears begin to stop welling in my eyes, and I feel heavy. Inexplicably heavy, as all the fear and the trauma comes crashing down all at once, almost knocking the breath from my lungs. All that's left is the fatigue.
The man merely laughs, gently, softly. It sounds to me like the flowing of water. It's soothing, and slowly I find my eyelids growing heavy. I close my eyes, and float away from the ruins of a ravaged home into my dreams.
*X*
I wake not to the darkness of a destroyed household, but to rays of sunlight streaming in through an open window. I draw the duvet over my eyes to shield them from the bright glare, but some of the light still manages to come through.
Wait, I have… A duvet?
I rub some of the leftover sleepiness out of my eyes, and realise that I'm lying in quite possibly the most luxurious bed I've ever seen. The mattress is soft and supple, and despite how thick it is I barely notice the blanket's there - it's almost like I'm not in a bed, but wrapped in warm clouds.
Having gotten my bearings, I look at the surrounding room. The walls around the only window are lined with a series of bookshelves, with a cascade of books haphazardly arranged on each. I take a look at each one, and realise that not only do I not recognise a single one, but some of them are even written in a script I can't make heads nor tails of. The only furniture in the room other than the bed and the bookshelves is a single desk, with two chairs sat next to it. The sunlight bathing the room makes it almost seem to glow, and for a moment I'm almost spellbound.
Until, that is, I hear a voice from the other side of the room. The door is standing ajar, and walking in with two steaming mugs in one hand and a cane in the other is a man with silvery hair.
"I see you're awake." he says, and his voice calms me almost immediately.
Regardless, I back away and try to look as defensive as possible.
Sure, I may have woken up in a pleasant room, but it was still an unknown room. And it, like this man, couldn't be trusted. He doesn't seem at all put off by the open display of mistrust I put on, instead sitting calmly at the desk, reaching for the shelf and popping open a nearby book. He also sets one of the two mugs down beside him, and the smell from it wafts into my nostrils.
It smells divine; rich, creamy with hints of something sweet. As I inhale the scent, I realise just how dry my throat is, and my mouth begins to water at the mere thought of tasting it. Tentatively, trying not to attract the bespectacled man's attention, I tiptoe over to the side of the desk he left the unattended mug on.
He seems not to notice, and I reach out and take the mug, taking a long, slow sip. It's hot. Very hot. But as soon as it moves past my slightly burned tongue, and moves into my body, I feel warm from head to toe - and the sweet taste of the drink still lingers on my palette.
I gulp the rest of it down in an instant.
"Do you like it?" the man asks.
I flinch a little, then look down at the now empty mug and back at him. He's smiling, and doesn't seem offended at all by my theft of his divine drink. Slowly, I nod. He chuckles a little, and my lingering suspicion vanishes. The sound warms me as much, if not more, than the drink did.
He puts the book down, and turns to face me, a mug of his own beverage in hand.
"It's called cocoa; a blend made from a plant they import from Vacuo. I've added a little bit of Forever Fall syrup to sweeten it, though."
I nod, trying to absorb the new information. The man seems kind - I can only hope his kindness isn't short-lived.
"Do you remember where you were before you woke up?" he asks, out of the blue. I jump a little, surprised at the sudden question. I try to think back, struggling to remember. Whenever I seem to take hold of a memory it falls through my hands like water, leaving only small traces behind.
I look back at the man, and my eyes drift to his cane, propped up against the desk.
An ornate black cane with a silver handle.
The memory hits me with the force of an avalanche, forcing me to my knees. My breath comes out in ragged gasps, and whenever I try and speak only choked, painful noises wriggle free of my clenching throat. My eyes are wide, and I'm shaking just like I was as a Beowolf had its claws sunk deep into my leg.
I look down at it, dread building as I imagine what it'll look like.
There's nothing wrong with it at all - no gaping wounds, no bandages and not even a scar mars its surface.
A hand on my head pulls me from my thoughts. The man is running his hand through my hair to comfort me, and I don't have the spirit to resist him. His touch feels… Impossibly gentle, for someone who killed a Beowolf with such incredible ease. I allow myself to relax once more.
"I…" I blurt, unsure of exactly what to say, "I don't want… To talk about it."
The man sighs. I flinch, worried that I've somehow upset him.
"That's quite alright," he says, taking a sip of his beverage before setting it back on the table, "I didn't expect you to want to talk about it yet."
I'm relieved to hear it. All the pain, all the bloodshed, all the lives lost… It isn't something I want to revisit; even in the presence of this complete stranger who, for whatever reason, commands my complete trust.
Come to think of it, I don't even know his name. I look at him questioningly, and he raises his eyebrows.
"Your… Name." I stumble over the words as they leave my mouth.
His smile widens, and for a moment he seems to glow like the sun.
"Ozpin." he introduces himself politely, before taking another sip of his beverage.
I only stare at him, wide-eyed.
"Ozpin… What?"
He chuckles a little, and the sound almost blows me away.
"It's just Ozpin, I'm afraid. And you?"
He has no surname.
Just like me.
My face, which had been stuck in a neutral mask for a long time, shatters, breaking through into a wide smile. I struggle to reply, moved too much to properly find the words - slightly dizzy and disoriented, but most of all happy. Happy beyond words.
"My name is…" I wipe away a tear threatening to fall from my eye, "Cinder. J-just Cinder."
"Just Cinder?" he takes another sip of his drink, and he looks at me - gazing right into my eyes. I shuffle my feet, still slightly uncomfortable with the eye contact. "I… See. Well, Cinder, I'm afraid to say that your old home is long gone. But, you probably already know that."
My shoulders slump, and my gaze falls to the floor at my feet. I'd already known, of course, but his words bring a crushing finality to it. My old life, that I'd known for what seemed like such a short time, was truly gone forever. It had come with bad times, certainly, but it had also come with good - good that I was now letting go of.
"I'm… Sorry." he hesitates when replying, and pinches the bridge of his nose, "I'm so sorry. You must have seen some truly horrible things out there - things a girl your age should never have to see."
I don't know what to do. He looks sad, perhaps guilty, but I have no idea how to comfort him. I reach out, and grip his arm, currently draped over his knee, and try to squeeze it reassuringly. He looks down at me once again, and chuckles. This time it sounds… Almost mournful.
"Listen, Cinder. I know that nothing I do can ever replace what you've lost, but…" he pauses for a long moment, sinking into thoughtful silence. "The least I can do is offer you my hospitality."
What? I look back up at him.
"If you stay, I'll make it my duty to teach you. It will be dangerous, but I'm certain you'll be up to the task."
I recall the Beowolf, battered aside with a single blow. If he teaches me, will I attain strength like that?
Strength that, for all my life, I've lacked?
"But," he continues, "More than anything, I want to give you the choice. If you choose to leave, I'll make sure you can live comfortably, and you'll definitely be safe."
There's a long gap, in which neither of us talks and he simply stares at me.
I don't really know what to say in response. The silence in the room is deafening - and anything I try to say dies before it can be articulated.
Despite that, I already know my answer. Take my chances out there, or stay with a man so powerful he could kill Grimm without a second thought, but so kind and comforting that he could dispel my troubles with a single laugh.
"I'd like," I stutter a little, perhaps from the nerves, "To stay with Ozpin."
The man's smile returns, and mine does too.
He's wrong. He can recompense for what I've lost. Certainly, the life I once had is gone forever, but my new life…
He soon sits me at the chair opposite him, and when I ask, begins to read a book from the shelves to me in great detail, and I hang on his every word.
Funnily enough, it's a fairy tale.
… My new life doesn't seem so bad.